


Money, Money, Money

by orphan_account



Series: Holy Moley! the BABA chronicles [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: ABBA, Gen, Gore and Blood, Gravity Falls is a strange place, Stan's Twin, drabbles centered around songs, headcanons, music inspired, not canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 16:36:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2628725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My headcanon about Stan's Twin. I had the ABBA song "Money Money Money" in mind as I wrote it. Also serves as a character study/personal headcanon about Stan in general.</p><p>Listen to the song <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ETxmCCsMoD0">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Money, Money, Money

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ab2fsycho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ab2fsycho/gifts).



Stanford Pines - although they all just called him Stan now - had never been a very successful man. It had nothing to do with lack of talent or intellect - he had both of those, in abundance, no matter what the rest of the world thought. He'd always put it down to rotten luck, but he knew at least part of the problem was his worst downfall: impatience. He was constantly cutting corners - sometimes literally. Any way he could find to swindle someone, he'd do it. He had a radar detector for loopholes. He had a special knack for lying - hell, sometimes he thinks he should have been an actor. If anyone could cheat the devil out of a deal or a reaper out of death, it would be Stan Pines.

And he was horrified to see this same trait, his impatience, in his great-nephew as well. He'd feel much worse about it if it wasn't for the fact that it seemed so natural in Dipper. It wasn't something he'd learned from Stan so much as something Stan had passed down. It skipped a generation - like the genes necessary for producing twins.

Stanley had always been better at these sorts of things. And by "these sorts of things," Stan meant _everything_. 

Okay, okay, so at the beginning, it seemed things would be the other way around; that Stan _ford_ , impatient and bossy, dominant and quick on his feet, would be the successful one. And he did do well - at first. But then there was that one small accident, and suddenly Stan was scrambling around trying to pick up the pieces of a life falling apart. His wife left him, taking their kid with her. Every check paid to him bounced, all the money in his account was drained. All he had left by the end of that month was a severe eye infection he kept covered with an eyepatch. 

He doesn't remember how he wound up in Gravity Falls. He doesn't remember how he got the Mystery Shack, or how he's managed to keep it. He'd thought Stanley would have abandoned him too. Their parents had - cut him off, wouldn't let him back into their house even. He had a tainted reputation now, and for something he hadn't even done. 

Yet. 

It took him awhile to get back on his feet. He started out ashamed of the things he did to get there - theft, bribery, intimidation. But nothing seemed to sink in for the people of Gravity Falls. He was never once called out by the police, and even when he told a man, flatly, that he was going to steal his property, there was no real response. It was infuriating, in a way. Maybe it was because he was still waiting for someone to assign the blame, the real blame, for what happened to him. Maybe he was trying to prove that the world wasn't so dead it couldn't spot the obvious corruption - that there was still hope that the man who ruined his life would be caught, that Stan could be restored to the man he once was. Back to normal, instead of becoming the very cheat and liar everyone now believed him to be.

But the most trouble he ever got in was for going over the speed limit. There wasn't even a fine - not a real one, at least. Durland - or was it Blubs? he couldn't tell a difference at the time, cops were all alike to him - drew a smiley face. The other one demanded five pounds of coffee in retribution. And Stan found himself settling there, despite the instincts that told him to get the hell out of dodge.

It was about three months after his arrival that the Mystery Shack was open for business. His sarcastic sense of humor and handiwork with a glue gun made it easy to fabricate a load of rubbish that tourists, for some reason, actually thought was real. The feeling of money in his hands after all that time became addictive. And for the longest time, it was all he could think about.

He didn't try to contact his family until a year had passed. Until he'd made enough money to be seen as "doing well." His parents still didn't want to talk to him, and so he looked to his left on the desk - the post-it note with Stanley's number, pasted to the front of a journal he'd found up in the attic. He bit his lip and the bullet and called.

"Hiya Stanford! How ya doin'?"

Normally, Stanley's chipper disposition made Stanford feel exhausted in comparison. No one should be allowed to have as much energy as his brother did. It's not like that was all he was made of - he must have at least gotten hungry or angry sometimes. Not that Stanford ever saw it.

But this time, the cheery voice was grating on his nerves. He felt guilty for not contacting his brother in so long, despite his repeated offers of help and the postcards he sent, pictures of his wife and kids. He knew Stanley wasn't doing it to reopen a wound, but to entice him back into the family. He never let it show that it bothered him, but Stanley knew good and well that Stanford had always wanted kids. And now, he'd never get to see his own.

"I'm - I'm doing okay, Stanley. How are you?" he winced at the sound of his own voice. Gruff. Deep. At least one of the kids about town had cried at the sound of it, insisting that Stan was some sort of demon. If that wasn't a knife twisting in his chest, Stan didn't know what was.

"Oh, you know me. Nothing can keep Stan Pines down!" his laugh was carefree. Stanford could almost see it - relaxed, his shoulders back, head tilted and laughing with his whole body instead of the fake, forced laughter Stan himself normally had to show. He smiled in spite of himself.

"Yeah, I guess that's always been true." The pause was awkward. "So, I've been wondering -" He bit his lip. "You know, some pretty crazy stuff happens in this town."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, just the weirdest crap you wouldn't even believe. I've been looking for someone who could, you know, be my mystery twin or something." _Dammit Stanford, you are a grown man, no breaking down. It was just a stupid childhood joke. Nothing to get emotional over._  

He could practically feel his twin's glowing smile on the other end of the phone. "I think I know a guy," he said.

* * *

Stan wasn't kidding about the strange things that happened in Gravity Falls. The town was weird, but no one seemed to notice any of the bizarre things that went on. (Although to be honest, he sometimes cruelly categorized the people themselves as strange things.) Stanley managed to get to the Mystery Shack far sooner than Stanford had anticipated. His brother busied himself looking at and admiring the attractions. ("Sixpackalope? Haha! Genius.") Stanford debated bringing the journal with him. The hesitation in his mind came as quite a shock to him - he was usually impulsive, leaping into action before actually thinking about the consequences. The journal wasn't even really his area of interest - in their games, Stanley had always been the ghost hunter, Stanford the ghost. 

"Stupid superstition," Stan muttered to himself. He pocketed the journal, but still felt the weight of something heavy like dread in his stomach.

Stanley didn't ask him directly about what happened, or about what was going on. He was more content to just talk about whatever came to mind. And Stanford wasn't bothered by this - Stanley had always been a bit of a talker. He kept asking questions about his wife, his kids, their parents - a sore spot Stanley glossed over. Anything to keep him distracted, in the hope that neither one of them would remember the "spooky stuff" that Stanford had told Stanley about on the phone.

But Stanford's streak of bad luck continued. "So," Stanley began, setting his coffee mug down. "What's this I hear about ghosts and vampires and weredogs?"

"I didn't say anything about weredogs."

"Damn. Well, you can't blame a guy for hoping!" Stanley smiled. "But seriously, bro. Share."

Stanford looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching or listening in on their conversation. He knew it seemed paranoid, could see concern sweeping over Stanley's face as Stanford double-checked. Then, slowly, Stanford drew the journal out of his jacket and slid it across the table to Stanley. "I don't know where it came from, or who wrote it. It was just sitting in my house when I got there. Up in the attic."

Stanley raised an eyebrow. "You're not tryin' to kid me around now are you, Stan?"

"What? No! Do you seriously think I would bribe my own brother to come here with some lame journal?" He crossed his arms over his chest, slouching in his booth. And then he smiled. "Wait a minute. This journal isn't scaring you, is it Stanley?" He leaned in, eyebrows raising and lowering in a mischievous manner.

"What! Of course not. Is that a challenge? Well challenge accepted! Let's go find -" he flipped through the journal, pointing at a random page. "Oh, how about this? This should be fun."

Stan didn't even look at the page. He just agreed. And in the aftermath, he wished he hadn't.

The forest was dark and cold, but not necessarily scary. Gravity Falls had quite a bit of wildlife, but all of the animals seemed just as strange and abnormal as the people. "What is it we're looking for again, Stanley?"

"It just says 'a mysterious bright light.' I think we'll know it when we see it!" Stanford rolled his eyes, grumbling to himself. "I heard that, mister!" His brother called back. Stanley was darting through the woods, just as excited then as he had been when they were children. 

He didn't know how long they'd been wandering aimlessly through the woods. Stanford took a look at his watch, only to see that the damn thing seemed to have stopped working. He swore, and began to shout out for Stanley to come back - it was nearly one in the morning when his watch had stopped. He was cut off by the sound of something tumbling, a sickening crunch. There was a cough. "St- Stanford!" 

Stan took off running. He dropped his flashlight, but didn't bother going back for it. "I'm here! I'm coming!" he shouted helplessly.

"STAN!" His brother was now screaming, his heart was now palpitating and his legs were seizing up. 

When he managed to reach his brother, he felt engulfed by anger. His brother was on his hands and knees, shaking from what Stan thought was laughter. If this had all been some joke -

No. When Stanley's head turned up to face him, Stanford took an involuntary step back. In shock, in disgust. His brother's eyes were missing now, hollowed white. Blood was dripping from the sockets. "Stanley? Stanley, what happened?"

"Stan -?" He breathed. He reached out, grabbing his brother's hand. "Stanford - Stan -"

"I'm here, buddy. Let's just - here, stand up." The grip on his wrist felt like a vise. 

"Stan," his brother whispered. "Stan, run."

"What?"

"Stan," he shouted, "Run!"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm not leaving you, now get up!"

"STA-" the words caught in his brother's throat, and he looked frozen.

"Stanley?"

And suddenly, the white light behind him was growing, elongating, like some sort of deranged eye of a storm. He tried to keep a grip on his brother's arm, but he looked down to see the ground being swallowed and he a let out a shout and let go. In that moment, he found that he hated himself, too scared to move either forward or back, too weak to save his brother. The noise as the vortex closed probably left him with some hearing damage, and the blast from the closing slammed him against a tree, leaving a knot in his back.

* * *

He couldn't remember much after that. He knew he managed to get into Stanley's car and drive home. He remembered calling his sister-in-law, lying to her about what happened - just leaving it at the part where they went for a walk in the woods, that he couldn't find him when it was time to leave. The cops did their part, searching the woods. Stanford was sure his sister-in-law would hate him, but quite the opposite happened. She visited with his niece and nephew a few times, but understood when he declined to join the family for holiday dinners and get-togethers. They kept in touch through letters and post-cards. And the years just went by, Stan creating new contraptions to show off, more lies to sell as truth. Eventually he scraped together enough money to afford a handyman, but his pool of candidates was pathetic. One after other quit or was fired, all of them as incompetent as the next.

He doesn't remember hiring Soos, but he started showing up when he was twelve. He was on time and consistent. He wasn't always the best at his job, but he worked hard at it and did anything Stan asked him to do. How Soos managed to keep with Stan for ten years is beyond him, but it's not too much longer before Wendy comes to work for him as well.

And then, there's Mabel and Dipper. He must have tossed out the letter that informing him that his niece-in-law had twins. He could vaguely remember holding his head in his hands, not able to cry but too defeated to just brush it off. He'd all but erased the memory until he received a request from her to send the kids to him for the summer. And now he just stands there, watching them raking the backyard from the upstairs window. He fans the money with his thumb, thinking back to what Mabel had said earlier. "Money can't buy you love, Grunkle Stan." She'd said it with an air of disappointment that he tried to ignore.

Instead, he rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Enough with the Beatles lyrics, kid. Get out there and rake the yard."

He was conflicted, because it was true. Money couldn't bring his former life back - his wife, the kid he never even met, his brother. 

But in the back of the house, hidden behind the vending machine, in a desk he kept secret from everyone, he hid the journal. The journal with the hand outlined, the number one embossed in the middle of the hand. His instincts told him there were probably three journals - three was the magic number, after all. He was just working with what he had, but he knew he'd have to find the others to finish the equations. The contraption he'd been building, had started building since the day his brother disappeared - that was what all the money was for. 

He was just hoping he wouldn't have to sacrifice anything else in the process.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're wondering why I tagged Bill Cipher and then didn't include him, I was trying to imply what my headcanon is - that Stan's Twin became Bill Cipher.


End file.
